


I Want You

by blueshadows



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Ambiguous Happy Ending, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Implied Immortality, Jealousy, M/M, Porn With Plot, Prisoner of War, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Time Skips, very little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueshadows/pseuds/blueshadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot that splits off from the original timeline during book 5 (Order of the Phoenix)</p><p> </p><p>It’s been over four years now. He had been 15 when he had been stolen away at the Department of Mysteries. 16 when he’d first been touched in such a way. and two years ago, he’d first been taken, and it had hurt terribly, causing tears that he had no longer remembered having to roll down his cheeks at the terrible, terrible burning.</p><p>Ambiguously happy ending (whatever that means)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want You

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a kudos if you liked it! Inspired by my need for angsty hate-sex, but then failing to follow through...
> 
> Any mistakes are my own- I have no beta.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Ungh!” He grunts as a particularly hard thrust throws him forward, making him grab for something to hold onto. He’s trying to forget where he is, what’s happening to him. What he’s come to accept. But it’s _hard_ , doing something like that. Especially as he can feel his captor moving inside of him, hear the heavy breathing and grunts. So instead of focusing on the strangeness of being taken that he had yet to get used to, that he didn’t want to get used to, he focuses on something else.

 

A bird passes by outside the window, flying with a freedom he could only wish he had now that he’s imprisoned. Has been.

 

It’s been over four years now. He had been 15 when he had been stolen away at the Department of Mysteries. 16 when he’d first been touched in such a way. and two years ago, he’d first been taken, and it had hurt terribly, causing tears that he had no longer remembered having to roll down his cheeks at the terrible, terrible burning.

 

But now he was 19, and used to the feeling. At times, there was a fleeting moment in which he believed that he felt pleasure. Certainly, he’d been brought to completion more than once. But the pleasure was not the pleasure of his body finishing, but the pleasure of being held. He had, at some times, felt that he might come to enjoy this feeling. But that was unacceptable.

 

So instead of letting himself become convinced that he was enjoying himself, he stares out the window and dreams of the day when he will be free.

 

Sometimes, he thinks about falling. He had a window, and though it was guarded by wards for now, he was always hopeful that one day the wards would fail, and then he’d finally be free to fall and fall and fall until his body hit the ground below, releasing him from this imprisonment.

 

But as if sensing that Harry’s mind was somewhere else and not on the fact that he was being taken, Voldemort thrusts inside with a strange roll, an action that makes Harry whimper and close his eyes as the man’s cock brushes against his prostate. But with his eyes closed, he can no longer look outside and imagine being free. So he tries to open his eyes and look, but at that exact moment cold hands grab his chin and turn his face so that he’s staring at red eyes, then his lips are being devoured.

 

Under the intensity of the way he’s being kissed, he can’t help but reciprocate, his lips moving in motions that match the other’s. It wasn’t as if he had learned on purpose or the like. It was just that it was hard not to learn and be molded to react just so when he did stuff like this so often. So he kisses back, out of habit and not a little begrudgingly. Not that it matters to Voldemort. No, he would prefer for it to be grudgingly given. It was a sign of victory for him, one that he could not deny him. And that only made Harry hate him all the more.

 

Another cold hand grips his cock firmly, moving to the same rhythm as the movement inside of him, and finally, he can’t stop himself from making those sounds of shame. He moans in spite of himself, then begins to shake as the pleasure he had been blocking from his mind slowly, then suddenly, seeps in, taking over his mind and body until he’s just a moaning mess, unable to think about anything beyond the haze that forms in his head.

 

With a loud cry, he comes, the white fluid marking the green sheets beneath him, as Voldemort moves even faster, until he hears the man’s sound of completion as the liquid heat fills him.

 

And then he’s allowed to slump against the dirty sheets, too tired to object now as Voldemort takes the spot next to him, too tired to be disgusted with the way he can feel the seed inside him leaking out. Too tired to care for anything but the blankness of sleep and the freedom it grants.

 

\--

 

“Tell me, Harry, what do you most desire?” The voice is smooth like silk as a cold hand strokes his hair. He does his best not to struggle or shudder in disgust- such actions were futile and would only give Voldemort a sense of satisfaction, as if he had beaten him.

 

Instead of answering him as he obviously desires, he stays silent, ignoring him as best as he can. What a pointless question. It wasn’t as if the answer wasn’t obvious. He wanted freedom.

 

A heavy sigh is heard, then the hand stops stroking his hair. A bit of movement later, and suddenly he’s alone again. He feels a heaviness in his heart, as if there’s a large weight there.

 

Well of course there was. He had just been denied his chance for freedom again. There was no other reason.

 

\--

 

Green eyes turn to venom as he sees the newest addition to the circle. How _dare_ that bastard gather his Death Eaters here?? Infringing on his space. The first time it had happened, it had been like a slap. He thought that this place, prison that it was, would be a place where he could consider himself safe. Maybe not from Voldemort, never from him, but he had thought that, at the very least, he’d be allowed the dignity of not seeing his followers. His underlings.

 

And now, not only had he brought his minions here again, but he had brought someone not of his inner circle.

 

Why he was there, Harry did not know. He did not radiate power, which would have been an acceptable enough reason for him to have joined the inner circle. And from what he heard, the boy had completed no amazing traits. Nothing worthy of mark. And no grand accomplishments. No, the only thing that could be considered remarkable about him was his _beauty_.

 

And really, beauty was no qualifier. Not to join the inner circle. 

 

And even though Harry is most definitely not on Voldemort's side, he does find it ridiculous that the man would allow someone so utterly useless join him. Stand by his side. Even worse, he could see the way the boy would look at him. Not as if he were some monster, but as if he were beautiful. And sometimes Voldemort would look at him and be more gentle. Both actions made him scoff. 

 

As if Voldemort would love anyone. But it was probably just desire. 

 

And if it was simply desire, then he knew that his captor would act on it soon. 

 

So he waited.

 

He waited for the time when the man would grow tired of that useless idiot's company, or his body, his looks. After all, everyone ages. Everyone but Voldemort and he himself. So all he would have to do was wait.

 

So he waited.

 

And waited.

 

It seemed to last forever, when it was in fact a month, maybe a bit less (27 days exactly, not that he had counted), when he saw the boy walking around, looking a bit dazed and dreamy, his hair a mess, his robes looking as though someone had been ravishing him. And when he sees Harry, his face immediately turns a bright red, and then he's moving hurriedly out of the way. But not fast enough to avoid the rough shouldering Harry gives him as he storms by.

 

All he had to do was wait. Pollux's beauty would fade. Voldemort would grow tired of him, and then he'd see what a mistake it was to allow such a weakling into his circle. Even Harry, as someone who was vehemently against the monster's campaigns, felt a need to tell him as much. It was a mistake, he was only making himself weaker. Why bring in a liability, whose only good point was his face? It didn't make sense.

 

\--

 

Pollux was walking with bowed legs now, and Voldemort had this smug look on his face as red eyes followed after the boy's path. And Harry's hands fist into his robes- robes he was allowed to wear because no one else was allowed to view his body except for Voldemort, unless he wanted his friends to suffer- and his nails dig into his skin, leaving behind red half-moons. 

 

Well. At least he knew where he'd been last night then. Not that he had worried. He was, in fact, frequently away. It'd be silly of Harry to worry after him. Even sillier because he hated him, and so such concern was unnecessary. But no, he wasn't concerned for the man. No, he was concerned for who might have to suffer at his hands. What if he had decided to torture Ron or Hermione? Yes, that was the source of his concern.

 

But still, the sight of Pollux's uneven walking, as well as the way Voldemort's lips seem to smirk at him every time he catches Harry sneaking a look, makes him boil on the inside. Fool. Voldemort was a fool for letting someone he intended to fuck into his inner circle. It would make him weaker. But that was good, really. Except it was so pitiful that Harry raged at the thought.

 

\--

 

several days later, Voldemort comes into his room, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

 

Harry refuses to face him, instead staring blankly at the wall. He was finding that walls could be incredibly fascinating if one tried to make them so.

 

"Harry, look at me." The voice is so commanding. Always commanding. But Harry had never been one to listen to authority, now had he? In fact, his continued obedience now seemed to be rather pointless. It wasn't as if it would free him.

 

"Look at me, Harry." That same commanding tone. He wonders if Voldemort used it on Pollux.

 

And it seems that it's all that Harry needs for his already worn-down control to break, that one thought, and then he's saying things, words that spring from somewhere inside of him that he hadn't known he had contained until the words were coming out and it was too late.

 

"why should I look at you, when you only look at  _him_? What does he have that I don't, that you watch him with that satisfied look on your face? It makes me want to punch you and scream and run and die and you don't stop! Ever since he came, you've changed and I hate it and why should I look at you when I know that you'll never l-" He realizes, belatedly, that he had already turned and was facing Voldemort. His eyes were flashing angrily, and if they stung, then it was because he was so enraged. And he also realizes, a bit belatedly, what he had been about to say.  _Look at me like that_. 

 

His face flushes, and then he turns away again, refusing to say more. His lips thin until they practically disappear, and his arms cross in front of his chest.

 

"Harry." He flinches when the breath carrying those words touch his ear, then pretends he hadn't. "Harry, look at me."

 

He refuses. Why should he look, anyways? To look was to give in. And he had already given in so many times. He wasn't about to give in again. Not now.

 

"Harry, are you jealous?" The words seem to hold a hint of emotion, and while Harry's not sure what it is, he suspects, rather strongly, that it's laughter. And contempt.

 

Cold arms pull him into the man's broad chest, but still he does not lower his crossed arms. His body remains still, and his mind, now set, can be as stubborn as a mule. He was worse than Hermione sometimes, he knew.

 

"I don't see why you should be so jealous, when you're the only one I look at." The words make his stubborn will shiver. Maybe he wasn't feeling very mulish. But he still wasn't about to give in.

 

"If this is about Pollux, then I assure you that I've never touched him. Indeed, why would I, when I have someone far more to my tastes already? What need have I for someone so weak and helpless?" A soft chuckle is heard, a sound that Harry's ears find strange and yet... yet it made him feel strange. Almost warmer. "You believe I have brought him into my confidences, don't you?" A cool hand strokes his hair. "I assure you that he's only in here at all because of who his mother is."

 

Finally, Harry finds that he has to speak. The impulse had grown too large to hold back anymore. "Then why do I see him looking so... so..." He flushes as he tries to find the right words. There were words, but none of them could adequately explain what he meant. Both the disgust he had felt and that cold creeping thing, that need to destroy as he had taken in that mussed hair. 

 

"Ah." Voldemort pauses, seeming to find amusement in elongating Harry's pain. And for this, Harry scowls, tensing again where he had relaxed before. "It seems that he has found someone of interest to him, and has been pursued by him-" And here, his tone turns mocking, as if he found the boy's desire to be courted foolish, "enough that he was willing to give away a few... liberties."

 

That explained, he looks at Harry and lifts his face up so that their eyes can meet. And for a few long moments, there's a silence that's too light to be heavy but too heavy to be light hanging between them. And then Harry seems to lunge, and their lips lock.

 

The kiss that ensues is no form of perfection. It's too heated and raw to be perfect. But that didn't mean that Voldemort didn't feel satisfied. 

 

A flick of his hands and they're both naked, and Harry's body, having been trained for so long, automatically responds to his touch as he begins to run a hand from his shoulder to his lower abdomen, just above the cock, and massages the skin there. Harry moans in response, the kiss becoming even heavier, with open mouths and moving tongues, the taste of each in the other's mouth.

 

And then suddenly a wetness is filling him, a strange feeling when he had yet to be fucked, and then something much too small to be Voldemort's length is prodding against his entrance, then slipping inside. 

 

It's a strange feeling, and one that makes Harry gasp in shock as he jerks away, only to be held in place by the other hand that's possessively holding him. And the finger moves, and Harry finds that he's enjoying the movement. There's no sharp, burning pain with this, just gentle movement and flashes of hot pleasure. But it's not enough and he's whining into the kiss, moving his hips as he seeks more.

 

And Voldemort gives him more, fingers being added inside until Harry didn't know how many were inside of him, just that it felt good and that he was full but not yet full enough and wanted something else. Something that he had once thought he would forever despise. 

 

But Voldemort seems to be in no hurry to give it to him, despite being obviously hard and pulsing. Or Harry thought it was pulsing. He wasn't really sure anymore, so lost was he in that thick cloud of pleasure and need and want. So he pulls back, breaking the kiss that had before only been broken, and even then not completely, to breathe, and speaks in a rough, demanding voice. "Now." He commands.

 

And red eyes glimmer in something not unlike amusement as the fingers are pulled away so suddenly that he's left gasping at the sudden emptiness. 

 

But then he's gasping, because he's not empty. In fact, he's being stretched now, stretched further than the fingers had allowed for, certainly, and he can tell because there's a slight burn. But it's nothing like the burning from before, and he can easily regain that feeling of pleasure, especially when his prostate is found. A few more thrusts, and he's taken Voldemort in as much as he could possibly manage, and for some reason it felt as if he were bigger now than all the other times.

 

And he's being patient. He looks into Harry's face and seems to wait for signs that he's ready, and while Harry wants him to move  _now_ and give him what he wants and craves, Voldemort seems to know his limits better. So when Harry tries to lift his hips up, strong hands grab them and force him to stay still.

 

And then comes the rocking. Harry didn't know that anyone could feel like this. Or anything. But now he could feel the man's cock in him, moving in small circles that brush at his walls and his prostate and he's doing his best not to come because that would be embarrassing. But as the movement continues, it becomes clear that he can't last much longer, and then he's crying out as his seed spills onto both of their chests then drips down towards where they are joined, and once he's come back from that haze of ecstasy, he's apologetic, except that Voldemort doesn't give him a chance.

 

It seems that the moment his brain becomes even semi-functional, Voldemort is insistent on clouding it again with pleasure. Because now he's moving, and thrusting and thrusting hard and fast, just the way that Harry had come to like despite his denials and tears from all those previous times. And Harry can only clutch at the man's shoulders as the hard cock thrusts up into him over and over, his body coming down to meet it almost of its own accord. Briefly, in a distant corner, he wonders if this is what it felt like to be a puppet of sorts. But the thought is gone as soon as it had come and then he's coming again, more white fluid landing between them as Voldemort's thrusts become faster and uneven until he's thrust in as deep as he can go, and then Harry feels that heat fill him up and he knows that he's not disgusted by it, because his own cock gives a feeble little twitch at the feeling of being filled and overflowing with the man's seed.

 

After a few minutes, Voldemort pulls out, settling them both down on the bed.

 

Harry's about to slip off to sleep when the man's voice cuts in. "What do you want, Harry?"

 

The only hesitation in his voice is one caused by exhaustion, and he yawns as he says it. "I want you." He says, just before drifting off.

 

He misses the satisfied smile on Voldemort's face. 


End file.
